Grazing on pastoral land, behold the

Gentle sheep, silent as the sun does fail

All your life, your little heart a-beating

Content on nature’s bounty you thus fed

Without care, your little tongue a-bleating

When human hands quickly grabbed your head

Chemical thrills ran through your modest frame

As the steely blade gave you your last breath

Entrails spilt on the earthen ground

Scooped up pieces of the butchers art, alas

thy fate had turned towards the art of sound

Quickly, send thy pieces up ahead

Cold water for meat and fat separating

Machine pressing and liquid spewing

Squeeze elastic mucosa from the tubing

Measure casing and salt for curing

Soda ash, lye or wine rehydrating

Smooth and rough side on the horn a-splitting

Sulfur dioxide for whitening

Polishing, twisting, a bit of resting

Then oil and cut and thread the ends

Coil up in package and meet new friend.

Musician toils long and hard for glory

Hearts and strings the two doth marry

Now you bleat on an antique wooden frame

The supreme glow of Stradivari

Kissed full on by the horses noble tail

And master fingers gliding on their tips

Round drops of honey notes pour forth in gales

The breathless crowd, the thrilling elation

With thoughts of you at pasture, little lamb

For your sacrifice, the standing ovation.